


i'm on fire

by hart



Series: stay as long as you want (haven't left your bed since) [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Getting Together, Good Babysitter Steve Harrington, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 10:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20580917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hart/pseuds/hart
Summary: “I can’t think about this-” Billy gasps into Harrington’s mouth, desperate.“Then don’t think,” Harrington breathes. “It’s okay. Don’t think.”And, yeah. That’s a better option.or: the one where steve might just be billy's lifeboat.sequel to crash.





	i'm on fire

**Author's Note:**

> this is a direct sequel to crash, the work prior to this in this series. it could read on it's own, but definitely best read after crash.  
thank you guys sooo much for your feedback on crash, and sorry this one was a long time coming.

Billy _knows_ he’s being an asshole.

It’s half one in the morning when Harrington finally drags him to the hospital, and he’s tired, and aching, and _desperate_ for a smoke. He tries to flirt his way out of the place, but the blood between his teeth cramps his attempt at casual pretty quick. Since then, he’s just given up. He can feel Harrington _itching_ with second-hand apologies as Billy barks curses at a nurse, trying to give him stitches, and Billy _knows_ he’s being an asshole, but he’s so _fucking tired. _

They keep him a couple of hours. In the end, he escapes with two cracked ribs, two broken fingers and a shit-ton of bruises.

“You’re lucky,” the nurse says as she checks him out of the hospital. Billy laughs, because otherwise he’d cry.

Harrington is blissfully silent in the ride back to his. Billy rolls the window down and lights up a cigarette, leaning against the inside of the door and closing his eyes against the breeze until they pull into the drive.

“Hey,” Harrington says softly. Billy keeps his eyes shut. “Billy. Let’s go inside.”

Billy takes in a huge breath and sits up, regards Harrington for a moment before nodding. Harrington tries to help him to the door, but Billy shrugs him off. He tries again when it comes to the stairs, and Billy leans, lets him, because it’s nearly four and he’s _never_ felt more exhausted.

He says nothing as Harrington strips down to his boxers, tosses his clothes on his bedroom floor and clambers into bed. He’s sat watching Billy, and Billy gets the horrible feeling that he’s about to ask if he wants to _talk_ about it.

“I can’t be fucked with school tomorrow, don’t know about you,” is all he says.

Billy is so grateful he could _cry_.

He peels off his clothes, painfully slow, and slides in next to Harrington. He wonders if they should talk about this. He’s glad that they don’t.

When Billy wakes up, _everything_ hurts. Harrington has his face buried into the back of Billy’s neck, one arm slung over his side, and before Billy can really think about their position he’s overwhelmed by the sensation of _crushing_ on his ribs. He groans, rolling over and out from under Harrington. The movement hurts so bad it makes him gag. Harrington stirs but doesn’t wake up as Billy hauls himself out of bed and stumbles towards the bathroom. The _nearest_ bathroom. Because, as he falls in front of the toilet, he has a split-second realisation that this _isn’t_ the bathroom he was in last time, and fuck_, how rich are these people_\- before he’s throwing up everything he’s got. It doesn’t help the pain in his ribs. When he’s done, he just sits there, face resting on his arm as he catches his breath and prays- _actually_ _prays_\- for the pain to subside.

He grabs onto the flush and pulls it down at the same time as pulling himself up, before shuffling over and clinging onto the sink, rinsing out his mouth with mouthwash. He feels like he’s been run over.

When he looks into the mirror, he’s hit with another wave of nausea he has to swallow down, and as he hears Harrington moving around in the other room, Billy’s suddenly feeling self-conscious for the first time in _years_. He looks _awful_.

“You alright?” Harrington mumbles as he rounds the corner, leaning on the doorframe.

He’s still in just his boxers. Billy’s very aware of the fact that he is too, _very_ aware of the fact that Harrington is looking at his body in all its bruised glory. Billy’s _never_ wanted to cover up more.

“You were squashing me,” he says, wrapping his arms across his chest.

“Shit, sorry,” Harrington says. He bites his lip. Billy fixes the bathroom tiles with a stare. “You should call Hop.”

He looks up.

“The _cop_?” he asks, and Harrington nods. Billy doesn’t want to call the fucking cops, deflects instead because he’s _good_ at that- “Why do you call him that? You’re a narc, Harrington, I knew it.”

Harrington laughs. It’s not really funny, but it’s breaking the tension. Chipping away at it like a nail file on granite.

“He’s a good guy.”

Billy hums in response, thinking.

“Max knows his kid,” he says.

“El,” Harrington says.

It feels like they’re swimming in treacle.

“Look,” he says. “He’s cool. You should find out what’s going on, you can’t avoid it forever.”

_Fuck this_, Billy thinks, because it’s been less than _twenty-four hours_, he can _absolutely_ avoid shit for a day. He starts to move past Harrington, thinks twice about barging into his shoulder just in time to avoid aggravating his injuries, before Harrington speaks again.

“Can you at least call Max?”

Billy stops. Sighs, feels himself deflate, because maybe he’s an asshole but he’s not _that_ much of an asshole, and yeah. Fine. He should probably check in with Max. He turns back to Harrington, who’s looking at him with fucking puppy-dog eyes that make him want to split his lip, _again_.

“Fine,” he says eventually. “Let me use your phone.”

\---- 

Turns out, Max is _staying_ with the cop and his kid.

He calls the Byers’ expecting to get her, instead getting the weird, surly big brother. He says something about _Hopper had a spare_ room, and a taunting ‘_Oh, she didn’t tell you?_’. Billy bites back the urge to inform him that _most_ people have more friends than their not-even-siblings but can’t be bothered. He hangs up instead, and just rests his forehead down against the cool kitchen counter until Harrington pads downstairs.

“You alright?”

Billy sits up and runs a hand over his face, regrets it pretty quick when he snags the stitches on his cheek. Harrington’s in his space immediately, pulling Billy’s hand away and cupping his face, inspecting the stitches and fussing like the _babysitter_ he is.

“Leave it,” Billy groans, swatting at his hands but Harrington just holds his chin firmer.

“You gotta let it heal,” he says.

“Thanks,” Billy says flatly.

Harrington doesn’t let go of his face, keeps _staring_. Billy squirms a bit.

“What, uh,” Harrington clears his throat. “What did Max say?”

“It was Byers. Jonathon. She’s at Hopper’s.”

Billy doesn’t know why he’s nearly whispering. Harrington’s hand is still on Billy’s jaw.

“I can give you a ride,” Harrington says, voice low.

There a pause where Billy can’t find his words, his train of thought, Harrington’s face so close to his all of a sudden. In the moment it takes his eyes to flit to Billy’s mouth, Billy’s surging up to meet him, crowding him back against the counter and crushing their lips together. It’s not like the other two times. It’s hungry, messy, and Billy half-moans half-hisses into Harrington’s mouth as Harrington’s hands move down to grab at Billy’s hips, fingers digging into the bruises there.

“Shit, sorry-”

“Shut up.”

Billy pushes his shirt up, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his jaw, his neck, and Harrington arches his back against the counter and _pulls_ at Billy’s hair hard enough to hurt. Billy groans, then, and he can’t feel his ribs or his broken fingers, just Harrington’s hands tugging his hair until his scalp stings, and Harrington’s dick already hard through his jeans. Billy grabs at the button fastening them and Harrington lets out a whimper as he manages to get it open, and Billy palms at Harrington’s crotch with no finesse and only a vague sense of what to do next.

The phone ringing makes them jump apart, sending Billy’s heart shooting up to his throat.

Head _reeling_, panting, thinks _shit, fuck, what is he_-

Harrington steels himself, hands shaking as he picks up the phone and just about manages to get out a breathless:

“Hello? Yeah- uh-”

He turns to Billy who’s running his hands over his face again.

“It’s Max.”

Billy thinks this is what a car crash might feel like. He clears his throat, takes the phone from Harrington, and watches him awkwardly stand for a moment before walking away towards the pool, muttering _fuck_ over and over.

Billy is going to _kill_ Max if he doesn’t kill himself first.

\----

Billy doesn’t catch a ride to Hopper’s.

He’s out the door with only a brief ‘_seeing Max’_ to Harrington. He smokes five cigarettes on the walk out to the woods, every step hurting, dull aching pain that stops his mind from spinning out of control. By the time he reaches the cop’s hut his heart’s stopped racing. He realises, then, just how much he _wants_ to see Max. He hadn’t thought about how she might be feeling after the night before. He hadn’t even realised that _she’d_ been the one who called the cops on Neil until he was at the station, hadn’t registered how fucking _scared_ she would have been.

He’d been too busy spitting blood.

When Billy knocks on the cabin door, he doesn’t expect Max’s creepy friend to answer.

“Uh,” Billy starts.

The girl has a _weird_ stare. It makes his skin crawl a little.

“Billy,” she says. Billy makes a noise at the back of his throat.

“Yeah. Is Maxine here?”

The kid just nods. Billy’s starting to wonder if he needs some kind of password to be let in.

“Can I, like. _Talk_ to her?”

This girl is beginning to give him the serious creeps, but before Billy can think of what to do next her entire face softens, huge brown eyes brightening as she reaches out and grabs his hand. It’s his bad one, but she’s holding just his fourth and fifth finger like she knows not to touch the others as she drags him inside the hut.

“Jim’s working,” she says. Billy wonders how responsible Hopper is to leave his kid alone all day, but doesn’t exactly have a frame of reference for responsible parenting.

Just then, Max comes running out of another room and crashes into Billy hard enough for him to double over, hugging him in what must be the first time in _years_.

“_Christ_,” he gasps.

“Sorry!” she says, muffled in his shirt.

She’s not _that_ sorry, because she’s clinging _fucking_ hard. Billy pulls her off him with a wince.

“Are you okay?” she asks, after a nervous glance at his face.

It’s a stupid fucking question.

“Yeah,” he says, which is a stupid fucking answer.

Max reaches up, and touches the stitches on his cheek.

“Did that hurt?”

“No,” he says, grabbing her wrist sharply and pulling her hand away. “Listen, you need to call Susan.”

Max’s expression goes dark, as she gets that look about her that means she’s about to throw a tantrum.

“_Please_ don’t start.”

“I don’t want to talk to her!” she whines. “She didn’t _do_ _anything_.”

“She never fucking has,” Billy snaps, regrets it, because Susan’s never been _his_ mom but she’s the only one that Max has got.

Billy guesses, for her, it’s better than none. He heaves a sigh.

“Have you told her you’re here?”

Max shakes her head. Billy looks at the weird girl, who’s sat cross-legged on the floor by the sofa, reading a comic book.

“Hey,” he says, and she looks up. “Has your dad called her mom?”

She nods.

“So I _don’t_ have to call her!”

Billy grits his teeth and thinks. Fuck it. Let Susan fret.

“Fine,” he says. “But you gotta go to school tomorrow. And you gotta call Harrington’s tomorrow night to tell me you’ve gone.”

“Are you going to school?”

Billy’s been to school beat up before, but not like this.

“No.”

“You don’t look _that_ bad,” she says.

Billy hates how she can read his mind sometimes. Hates that she feels like a _real_ sister sometimes because she’s _not_. If she was, he could have _her_ parents instead, but he fucking doesn’t so what’s the point.

“It’s not about that,” he lies.

“What…” Max starts.

She trails off, looks down at her feet, chews her lip.

“Spit it out.”

“What happens now?”

Billy’s stomach flips. He’s been trying to avoid asking that question himself. He guesses that Max goes back to living with Susan, eventually. Billy becomes a hermit living in one of Harrington’s spare rooms, until Harrington’s parents come home and see he’s harbouring trailer-trash. Or until they both realise that whatever they’re doing is a fucking _pipe dream_; that it’s not for prom kings like Harrington, or sons like Billy, or for _Hawkins fucking Indiana_.

“Adult shit,” is what Billy says instead.

Max shifts on her feet and nods. Billy pulls a smoke out of his pocket, briefly considers telling her that it’ll be okay. Thinks _where’s the good in that_, before turning to leave.

That night, Billy lays with Harrington curled around him. He’s running a trail of gentle kisses down the nape of Billy’s neck, across his shoulders, and Billy knows he’s pretending he doesn’t feel him tremble. Billy thinks _he’s so screwed_, thinks _he’s in so much trouble_, goes to sleep pretending that he’s not Billy fucking Hargrove, and that this isn’t Hawkins _fucking_ Indiana.

\----

“This is bullshit!”

Harrington’s _yelling_ in the cop’s face.

Billy still doesn’t know their relationship, really, still doesn’t understand why Hopper isn’t telling him he _shouldn’t_ be screaming at a cop. Billy’s face is resting in his hands at the kitchen table. Harrington’s pacing around the room with his arms in the air, as Hopper’s stood solemnly with one hand running through his hair, the other holding a cigarette that Harrington hasn’t told him to smoke outside.

“Look, kid, I know it’s not ideal-”

“Not _ideal_?” Harrington’s voice climbs an octave. “He _beat the shit out of him_! Look at him!”

Billy doesn’t really appreciate that.

“There’s a strict rule of no contact,” Hopper’s grinding out between his teeth. “It’s only until the hearing.”

“Is Max still at your place?”

Hopper breathes, heavy like. Guilt, maybe.

“No. She’s gotta stay with her mom.”

Steve gawks.

“And _him_!”

“He wont touch her,” Billy says, quiet, emotionless. “It’s just me.”

Steve looks like he could _cry_ then.

“I just don’t understand how he even _made bail_,” he turns back to Hopper. “How much was it? I mean, _who’s_ paying for that piece of _shit_-”

“_Steve_,” Hopper says.

Harrington stops, breathless, face bright red. He turns to look at Billy, who feels like he’s listening from underwater or far away. He surprises himself with how _little_ he feels.

“Hey,” Harrington says, gentler, leaning down to Billy’s eye level until Billy looks at him.

He doesn’t say anything else, just tucks a curl behind Billy’s ear. He’s too tired to care what the cop thinks, leans into Harrington’s hand, closes his eyes. He isn’t him. This isn’t Hawkins Indiana.

Hopper clears his throat behind Harrington, and his hand is gone from Billy’s face.

“Kid,” Hopper says.

It takes a moment for Billy to realise he’s talking to him, takes a moment for Billy to remember this conversation is _about_ _him,_ before opening his eyes.

“He can’t touch you. We’ve got a good case- your sister will testify. So will your step-mom.”

That gets Billy’s attention.

“What?”

“She’s implicated if she doesn’t.”

Billy laughs, once, because _oh_. _Right_.

“When does he get out?” Billy asks.

“Tomorrow.”

“Right.”

There’s a long silence where Hopper sucks on his cigarette. Billy can feel Harrington’s eyes on him, doesn’t look up to meet them, stares instead at the tap on the sink. Hopper says something more that Billy doesn’t tune into, before Harrington lets him out, and then it’s just the two of them, alone in his kitchen, again.

“Hey,” Harrington repeats, pulling up the stool next to Billy.

Billy finally looks up.

“Do you wanna do something today?”

_Do you wanna do something before you’re too scared to leave the house again, _Billy figures is what he means.

“What?” Billy asks, voice cracking a tiny bit, which is fucking embarrassing.

“Anything. Go for a drive.”

Billy bites the inside of his cheek for a minute.

“Alright,” he says, and Harrington grins.

Harrington barely says anything in the car. Which is nice, because usually Billy can’t get him to shut up. But it’s starting to get eerie. It’s starting to make Billy feel _fragile_.

They pull up into an empty field at around six. Harrington turns the radio on quiet, and they just lie on the bonnet of his hideous BMW, lighting up a spliff. It’s nearly June, warm enough for no jackets, and the sun’s still halfway up in front of them, making everything look orange. Hawkins looks kinda nice from where they are, actually. Not that Billy would ever admit that out loud.

They pass the spliff between each other for a few tokes, before Billy finally feels like he’s going to crawl out of his skin if someone doesn’t start talking.

“You’re uncharacteristically mellow,” he says, doesn’t look at Harrington but feels him turn his face and _stare_ like he does.

“I don’t know what to say,” Harrington says.

It’s a little honest for Billy.

They lie back against the hood for a bit longer, until the spliff’s gone and Billy’s eyes close, drowsy. He listens to crickets, and the radio crackle out slow drawl_, sometimes it’s like someone took a knife, baby, edgy and dull, cut a six-inch valley through the middle of my skull. _

And that’s a little honest, too.

“I can’t think about this.”

Harrington turns to him again. This time Billy looks.

“_This_,” Billy clarifies, pointing at his chest, then at Harrington’s. “Right now. I don’t know what I’m gonna _do_. I’ve gotta figure out what to do. I _can’t_-”

“You don’t have to,” Harrington says, eyes soft, like he means it- like he _gets_ it.

Billy wants to scream. He wants to _kill_ his fucking dad. He wants-

“Let’s get food,” Harrington slides off the bonnet. “We haven’t eaten all day.”

\----

Billy doesn’t think that Harrington can _actually_ be serious.

His dad’s _out_. This _morning_. And Billy’s only _vaguely_ comforted by the no-contact rule, but it’s not like Neil’s never gone out of his way just to _fuck_ with him, and Billy’s half-expecting him to just knock on Harrington’s door, shit-eating grin and fist to Billy’s face.

Harrington says that’s not gonna happen, but what does he know, he’s not _lived_ with him.

“I’m _sorry_,” Harrington’s saying, hands tugging through his hair, then gesticulating everywhere, because he talks with his arms like a fucking Italian or something. “Look, Billy, I’m sorry, I tried to get it off, but I missed last weekend because I was hungover, and Robin can’t cover, and it’s the first weekend of summer vacation. Like, for kids.”

“Fucking unbelievable.”

Billy’s being a dick, he knows. It’s not like Harrington can help it, and it’s not like Billy even _has_ a job so he can’t talk, really, but. He’s scared. Being a dick is the only way he can _deal_ with that.

“Don’t be a prick, I can’t help it,” Harrington says, and _fuck him_, honestly.

Billy groans. He slumps down on the end of Harrington’s bed, head in hands, thinks _can I just hide under the bed all day, please? _Which is stupid, because he’s nearly eighteen.

“He’s not gonna come here.”

“Fuck you.”

“He doesn’t even _know_ you’re here.” 

Harrington sighs. Billy feels the bed dip down next to him and he shuffles away from him, which is _really_ mature, he _knows_, and Harrington knows too because he groans, exasperated.

“Look,” Harrington sucks in a breath. “Dustin’s coming, with Max and Lucas. Why don’t you just, like, come sit with them?”

Billy wants the ground to swallow him whole.

“So, I sit here and wait for you to get home like a fucking _housewife_, or wait for my _dad_ to come looking, or join your weird kiddy gang?”

“Don’t say it like that, Jesus.”

Billy lifts his head out of his hands and glares.

“I _hate_ them,” he says. “They’re all twelve, and they’re _Max’s_ friends, and Max fucking _sucks_. No way. Zero chance.”

Harrington throws his arms up in the air and starts stripping off his sweats, flinging his wardrobe door open and muttering something that sounds suspiciously like _trying to help, Jesus_.

Billy watches Harrington’s back as his tugs his shirt over his head, tries not to stare too hard at the moles littering his pale skin or the way his hips shimmy stupidly as he pulls a pair of blue shorts over his boxers.

“Listen. Go to Hopper’s. I’ll give you a ride over, you can ask him again about your dad staying the fuck back. It might make you feel better. It’ll give you something to _do_.”

Harrington’s rambling on and Billy wants to listen, he really does, but-

“What the _fuck_,” he gapes, “are you _wearing_?”

Harrington spins around as he finishes fighting his way into his shirt. His _sailor_ shirt. Billy thinks he might have a stroke, because Harrington’s wearing a sailor _outfit_, complete with a little tie and a fucking hat, and he’s just _standing_ there, cross-armed, like _Billy’s_ the weird one.

“It’s my uniform,” he says flatly.

“Do you do bar mitzvahs?”

“Get fucked,” Harrington glowers. “I work at Scoops Ahoy.”

Billy _laughs_, and thanks God, or Jesus, or Hugh _fucking_ Hefner- whoever made up the concept that Steve Harrington goes to work in a tiny _sailor’s uniform_, because Billy was seriously starting to wonder if he was ever going to _laugh_ again after this week.

“Do you want a lift or not? You can _walk _again.”

Harrington’s glaring, which makes Billy grin as he stands up. He doesn’t really want to go back to Hopper’s, but Harrington’s right- it’s something to _do_. And it _might_ make him feel better, but he’s not gonna say that.

Billy claps Harrington on the back, says “let’s set sail then, Captain,” leaves him stood petulantly in his room as Billy fishes a smoke from his pocket and heads for the door.

Harrington gives him a lift to Hopper’s, and like last time, it’s his creepy kid that opens the door. Which is odd, because Billy kinda assumed she’d be at the mall with Max. She grabs his hand, last two fingers again, not even looking, and Billy wonders how she _knows_, but _shit_ it’s just as well. He thinks he might have to have the two broken ones reset because he’s not really looking after them.

“Is your dad home?” Billy asks as the girl shuts the door behind him, flops down on the couch and shakes her head.

Which is great.

Billy stands awkwardly in the kitchenette, thinking _is she gonna give him any more info?_ He decides _no_, so asks-

“Uh. When’s he back?”

She turns around and looks at him, all serious.

“One-thirty,” she says each word very precisely.

Billy thinks maybe she doesn’t go to school with Max, because she has four brain cells or something.

“Right. I’ll come back then,” he says, but she turns her whole body then, sitting round and shaking her head.

“You can stay,” she says.

It _is_ thirty minutes. He could potentially take a walk, but his body still aches, and he _really_ doesn’t want to risk running into his dad. Billy _wants_ to get his car, really, but that would _definitely_ involve running into his dad, so.

Thirty minutes.

He guesses he can watch T.V.

So Billy sits down on the edge of the couch, with his stepsister’s weird friend, picks up the remote and turns on _Sally Jessy Raphael_. They watch ten minutes of some woman complaining that her seventeenth or something child is a teenage menace, before the kid starts staring at Billy. Billy pretends not to notice until her gaze _literally_ starts burning, turns to her, snaps-

“What?”

“What happened?”

The brazenness of her voice makes him uncomfortable.

“Look, uh-” Billy waves a hand in a circle, eyes questioning, waiting.

“El,” she fills in.

“_El_. I don’t know what Maxine’s _told_ you-”

“Nothing,” El says, and that shuts Billy up.

Because he’d honestly expected Max to open her big fat mouth by now. He settles back into the couch a bit, relaxes just a fraction, because that makes things easier.

“Right. Well. _That’s_ what. Nothing.”

El frowns at Billy, but Billy pointedly ignores her, turning back to face the T.V. The girl with the irritating kid is replaced by someone who thinks they might have fucked their estranged cousin in a bar. El drags out a bottle of bright blue nail varnish and starts painting her toenails. It smells grim and chemical, but it kind of reminds Billy of working on the Camaro, so he doesn’t mind.

Once she’s done her tenth toe, she looks up at Billy.

“Want some?”

Billy blinks, then lets out a shallow laugh.

“Uh, no. Thanks.”

Because if he didn’t get the shit kicked into him for being a faggot before, blue nails would be the fucking dirt thrown on his coffin.

He knows his dad isn’t _here_ to do that, but. Force of habit. Paranoia. Whatever. He picks at the skin around his thumbnail.

“Are you scared?” El says quietly, and Billy nearly chokes.

“No. Of what? _No_.”

She looks at him then, piercing, for what feels like _forever_. Then she just shrugs, hops down off the couch and wanders into another room, leaving Billy sat, thinking _what the fuck_, before the door opens and Hopper walks in. 

\----

“I knew it,” Billy says, observing Harrington by his pool.

It’s a long, warm day for the lazy start of an Indiana summer. Billy’s knocked back three beers, stretched out cat-like on a pool lounger, watching Harrington dip his toe into the water, sat on the diving board. He’s been doing it for about an hour, and Billy- who’s already been in the pool twice- sets his beer down and gets up, walking over to Harrington and grabbing his shoulders. It makes him jump.

“Hey!” he bats Billy’s hands away, “get off- knew _what_?”

Billy flops down next to him on the diving board with a smirk.

“You’re one of those rich pool boys that can’t swim, aren’t you?”

Harrington goes red, which is exactly what Billy wants, because he’s bored, and it’s _hilarious_.

“I fucking knew it! You _actually_ can’t swim, can you?”

“Shut the fuck up. I can swim.”

Billy cocks an eyebrow.

“Why haven’t I seen you yet?”

“If you wanna see me skinny dipping, you just have to ask,” Harrington says.

Which, _okay_. That makes _Billy_ a bit red.

He swallows the feeling down, shakes it off like it’s not _desperately_ _true_, smiles all teeth, wolfish.

“Come on, King Steve, show me your best breaststroke,” he says, taking a hold of his shoulders again and manoeuvring him towards the water.

Which is when something strange happens.

Harrington springs to his feet so suddenly it nearly knocks the both of them off the board, before he hops down from it, onto the concrete, and shoves at Billy hard enough to send him down on his back.

“What the _fuck_?”

“Don’t _do_ that,” Harrington snaps. “Some people have their own shit, asshole.”

Billy gets to his feet, humour gone, because _Jesus_, it’s not like a seventeen-year-old with a pool being unable to swim _isn’t_ fucking funny, but.

“Don’t be so touchy,” he bites out. “Not my fault mommy didn’t pay for swimming lessons. Which, considering _this_ house, is a bit-”

Before he really registers what’s happening, Harrington’s at Billy’s throat, shoving him up against the surrounding fence and breathing hot in his face, livid, like Billy’s _personally_ tried to _drown_ him.

“Shut the _fuck_ up,” he snarls, real low in the back of his throat. “You need to _shut up_ sometimes, you know that?”

Billy’s challenging- until he’s not.

_You need to shut your mouth._

_Yes, sir._

Suddenly the air goes from his lungs, pinpricks of light flecking the corners of his vision, Harrington’s hot breath on his face, angry, _like_-

“_Shit_, Billy.”

Billy drops down the fencing like his bones have disappeared the moment Harrington lets go of his throat, shaking and gasping in embarrassingly impossible lungfuls of air.

“Billy- your dad- I’m sorry- I didn’t think,” Harrington’s saying, and _fuck_, Billy wishes he could _breathe_, wonders _what the fuck has happened_ by the time Harrington’s crouched in front of him, hovering awkwardly like he’s not sure if he should touch.

“Hey, hey, copy me,” he says, grabbing Billy’s hand after a hesitation and putting it on his own chest, breathing in and out slowly, rhythmically, until Billy starts to follow his pattern, until Billy’s mind starts to clear, and he’s left, trembling slightly.

He blinks up at Harrington after a minute or so, who’s looking at him with saccharine concern on his face.

“You alright?”

Billy clears his throat, nods, awkward.

“Didn’t know you were so defensive about swimming,” he croaks out.

Something dark flashes across Harrington’s face, before he shoots Billy an unconvincing half-smile and helps him to his feet. Billy doesn’t ask about it again.

\----

Billy’s been sleeping in Harrington’s bed for five nights now, and they still haven’t spoken about _it_. He doesn’t know what _it_ is, because they haven’t kissed, really, since Billy shoved him back against the kitchen counter, thinks that it’s probably good that Max called, then, because he’s a _mess_.

It’s been less than a week since the night at the station. Everything seems to be happening really fast, because Billy’s got to testify against his dad _next week,_ and it feels like he’s still breathing down his neck.

To be honest, Billy’s a bit scared of what he’ll do when he’s _not_.

Because then he might not be literally _killed_ for thinking about Harrington in… whatever way. He’s never had that kind of liberty over his feelings before, and Billy _knows_ he wouldn’t know how to deal with that. He knows he’d mess it up bad, pretty fucking quick, because he _does_ that.

Plus, there’s a very distinct possibility that it might just get _so much worse_.

It’s not like it’s the first time his dad’s been in legal trouble for laying his hands on Billy. It’s not been this _bad_ before, but Billy vaguely remembers. Back in California, a neighbour called the cops on their house. They arrived after Neil had shoved Billy back into a glass cabinet, who hit his head and had a fit. Neil just convinced the EMT that he had epilepsy. He was _pretty pissed_ after that, for _weeks_.

If he could wriggle out of _that_, then what’s to say-

“Thinkin’ too loud,” Harrington mumbles into Billy’s shoulder.

Billy turns around under Harrington’s arm- which still hurts to have over his ribs, but not _as_ bad. Not enough to not allow himself to just _have_ this. He turns so they’re face to face, noses touching.

“Harrington,” Billy hisses.

He just hums, half asleep. Billy bites his lip.

“He might just _get off_.”

Harrington makes a noise again that doesn’t mean anything.

There’s a pause. Billy can’t stop thinking about _what if_, because he’s _paranoid_ tonight, because if his dad _doesn’t_ get locked up then Billy’s fucking _gone_.

“I’m not queer,” Billy whispers, like that might make him any less dead.

Steve opens his eyes, then, lazy, deep brown, and just _looks_ at Billy, before closing the space between them and kissing him slow.

Billy _wishes_ he wouldn’t.

Because he _can’t_ not reciprocate when Harrington is angling his head just so, opening his mouth against Billy’s and moaning _so_ quietly, tongue licking into Billy’s mouth and hand tangling in the back of his hair.

It’s not an _answer_.

Billy whimpers as Harrington presses his body against his, slides one of his legs between Billy’s and pulls him close enough that his lungs hardly have room to breathe.

“I _can’t_ think about this-” Billy gasps into Harrington’s mouth, _desperate_.

“Then don’t think,” Harrington breathes. “It’s okay. Don’t think.”

And, yeah. That’s a better option.

Billy’s mouth is back on Harrington’s, then, hungry, and Harrington’s trying to keep it slow, _tender_, like Billy’s gonna _break_.

He might, but.

He needs to not think about it, and it’s feeling too much like a _first time_. The only way this isn’t gonna end with Billy in the ground is if it’s just another fuck, and so he grabs Harrington’s hips, pulls him up on top of Billy and starts guiding with his hands, getting Harrington grinding down on him. They’re both already hard, and Harrington leans down, bites at Billy’s neck, and Billy moans because _yes_, _that’s_ more like it, _this_ he can do.

“Shit,” he breathes, rocking up against him, hand grabbing at his hair, going “_Steve_.”

“_Yeah_,” Harrington pants in Billy’s ear, and it sends something straight down his spine.

Billy flips them over so he’s on top, trails wet kisses down Harrington’s throat, his chest, then mouths at his dick through his boxers before pulling them roughly down and taking Harrington into his mouth.

“_Fuck_,” he groans.

Billy doesn’t stop him bucking up into his mouth, feels his eyes water as Harrington’s dick hits the back of his throat. He pulls up off of him to spit obscenely, before sinking back down and _taking_ _everything_ he can.

Harrington whines as Billy works his tongue up the underside of his dick, gets his hands in Billy’s hair and holds his head down, and honestly, it’s a bit overwhelming but Billy’s _into_ that. He angles himself better, lies lower between Harrington’s legs and takes him as deep as he can go, choking a bit, but Harrington doesn’t seem to notice because Billy’s cheeks are hollowed out around Harrington and he can already _taste_ him.

“Jesus, fuck, Billy,” he sputters, hips shuddering.

Billy just hums in agreement around his dick. He looks up through his eyelashes and that seems to be what does it.

Harrington comes down Billy’s throat with a gasp, and Billy swallows fast, instinctively, staying down until Harrington’s making breathless _okay’_s and tugging Billy’s head up by his hair.

Billy sits up, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, half because he needs to, half because he _knows_ it’ll look hot and, well. Billy’s never one to pass up a bit of showmanship.

“Fuck,” Harrington says again.

He sits up with Billy half in his lap, slipping his hand into his already damp boxers and starts working him with his hand. Billy lets his head fall forwards onto Harrington’s shoulder, breathes little wet gasps into the crook of his neck as he thrusts jerkily up into his grip. He digs his nails into Harrington’s upper arms, clinging on for support as Harrington swipes his thumb over the head of Billy’s dick, and with a few more strokes Billy’s coming fast and hard over his hand and both of their stomach’s.

Billy collapses down next to Harrington, pushing the covers out of the way of their mess with his feet, and staring up at the ceiling, catching his breath. It’s kind of nice, until it’s kind of gross and sticky. He turns to Harrington, who’s looking at him in a way that Billy thinks is _too much_, says before he can say anything _too_ _real_:

“You wanna shower?”

Harrington bites his lip like he’s considering saying something Billy doesn’t wanna hear anyway.

In the end, he just says, “Can have one each. We got two.”

Billy laughs.

“Fuck, man. I can’t _stand_ you.”

\----

He doesn’t know how he’s ended up roped into this.

Harrington _already_ dragged him to school (something about _it’s their last week of high school, _y’know, _ever_, so Billy thinks _yeah, alright,_ skips most of his classes anyway, except Biology because his teacher’s kinda hot).

But now he’s sat shotgun in Harrington’s BMW, which is pulled up outside the Wheeler’s house as he dives in to get one of the kids. The _really_ surly one. They’re on their way to the mall, because Harrington promised the mites he’d take them _bowling_, and Billy’s starting to wonder, maybe, if facing off with his dad might be a better way to spend his afternoon. Billy’s waiting in the car with the one who’s _obsessed_ with Harrington, who is probably the worst one, because he won’t shut up.

“So are you, like, _friends_ with Steve now?” he says, leaning forwards over the back of the driver’s seat.

Billy doesn’t justify that with an answer.

“Because if you hurt him again, I swear to God, I will _end_ you.”

Billy snorts.

“You’re ten,” he says, rolling down the window and sparking a cigarette.

“I’m _fourteen_,” Dustin whines.

Billy bites, because, well. What else is there to do.

“If you’re fourteen where are your teeth?”

“I have Cleidocranial Dysplasia, _asshole_, and I _have_ teeth.”

Billy wishes he didn’t ask because, shit, he doesn’t _care_. He takes a drag, ashes out the window, repeats.

Dustin leans in closer to Billy’s ear, hisses threateningly:

“I mean it. You’ll _wish_ back the time Max nailed your balls to the floor.”

“She did _not_-” Billy starts, then stops and sighs because he’s not letting a fourteen-year-old rile him, damn it.

“Why aren’t we picking Max up anyway?”

Billy shifts uncomfortably.

“She’s skating.”

“Why are you making her _skate_-”

Billy turns around, then, faces Dustin, who shrinks back a bit.

“Look, _kid_. She _wanted_ to skate because she knows I can’t go over right now. Alright?”

“Over to your own house?”

“Jesus _Christ_!” Billy groans.

The side door opens and thank _fuck_, Harrington slumps down in the driver’s seat, Wheeler kid in tow, and Dustin’s immediately distracted as he gets in the back with him. Harrington grabs the cigarette from Billy’s hand and chucks it out the window.

“Don’t smoke in my car,” he says, and Billy gapes.

“I’ve smoked in here before!”

“Your lungs are ruined, but _theirs_ aren’t,” Harrington gestures to the kids in the back.

“Fucking hell,” Billy groans, leans back in his seat and sulks the rest of the way.

Billy pushes the ice-cream around his coke float until its just cold mush. He’s watching Harrington bowl, and he’s pretty awful but it’s _kind of_ cute. Billy refused to take part. Most of the kids seemed happy with that decision.

“Hey.”

He looks up as Max slides into the booth next to him. Billy still doesn’t _really_ know how to talk to her, but she’s proving to be less of a _total_ loser. Plus, the whole thing with the bat _has_ forced him into making some kind of effort with her. 

“You want this? It’s gross.”

He pushes the rest of his float towards her.

“Gee, _thanks_, generous,” she says in that sarcastic tone that sucks, but that Billy thinks she’s probably picked up from him. “Your face still looks crap.”

“Gee, thanks,” he parrots back.

“No, that’s good,” she says.

Billy looks at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Like, for the hearing,” she says, quieter. “I mean. It’s not _good_. But. At least they’ll _see_. Right?”

Billy feels weird about that.

“Right,” he says slowly.

There’s a beat of silence. Max fiddles with the spoon in the ice-cream, looking down at the glass awkwardly. Billy coughs.

“You, uh. You finding it alright?”

“It _is_ gross.”

“No,” Billy thinks she’s being deliberately obtuse. Or maybe just avoidant, which she definitely picked up from him. “With Susan. And dad.”

Max looks up then, and her face goes steel hard, freaks Billy out a bit because he’s pretty sure only _he’s_ ever glared that ferociously. Her grip on the spoon tightens.

“I can’t _stand_ him,” she says. “He’s walking around like nothing’s happened, like you were never _there_. Last night, he asked me if I wanted to _watch T.V. with them_. I told him to go fuck himself.”

Billy feels a swell of pride, but also-

"You shouldn't do that."

Because Neil’s never laid a hand on her, Billy’s fairly sure he never would because _you don’t break things that aren’t yours_, that’s not _respectful, _but still. If he ever did.

Max just shrugs. Billy. takes a deep breath.

“Listen, Max. You didn’t have to do what you did. Call the cops. I know it was-” _terrifying, dangerous, a potential death wish_ “- not easy.”

“He was gonna _kill_ you, Billy.”

Billy swallows, because, shit. Yeah. Maybe.

He clears his throat and sits up straight, nodding towards the alleys.

“I’ll do you _one_ game,” he says.

Her face lights up, but she still goes:

“You can’t use your right hand?”

Billy rolls his eyes.

“Well then it might be _fair_.”

“Ugh, you’re such a dick,” Max says, dragging him to his feet.

\----

Harrington comes with Billy to the courthouse.

Billy’s borrowed one of his suits, and the legs are just a bit too long, and he looks ridiculous because he’s cuffed them so they stop dragging, and he _feels_ like a child. He smokes seven cigarettes just waiting for Hopper to come take them there.

If he sees Harrington’s hand find Billy’s in the backseat of his pick-up, he doesn’t say anything. Billy isn’t really in the position to freak out about _that_ right now. Harrington’s rubbing tiny circles into his palm, and it’s just about the only thing stopping him from vomiting.

Hopper gives them a minute alone outside, and Billy starts pacing. Lights up a cigarette, decides he needs all the air he can get, puts it out, decides he needs a cigarette _more_, lights up another. Harrington’s looking at him all concerned and Billy _hates_ that.

“I’m fine,” he says. “It’s fine.”

Harrington says nothing, just steps forwards and puts his hands on Billy’s arms, stops him shifting around for five seconds to look into his eyes. He’s shaking like a leaf. Harrington looks around them briefly, before pressing a silent kiss to his forehead. He squeezes Billy’s arm and Billy hesitates, nods, before turning to go in.

It goes pretty much how Billy expects. There’s a protective order placed, which means his dad can’t contact him, but he’s still gonna be _around_, which means Billy _can’t_ go home. Hopper steps in with a temporary place of address, because Billy looks like he’s going to throw up all over the courtroom when they mention state care, and Billy’s _unbelievably_ grateful but.

He’s gonna get black-out drunk. 

Billy’s not said a single word since they left the courthouse. He sat back in the car, numb, walked back into Harrington’s, numb, and watched as Harrington paced, swore, finally calmed down, paced some more. Then his phone rang, and Billy heard him say, super quiet:

“No, Nance, I’m sorry, it sounds like a great party, I’ve just got some shit on.”

So Billy had had a shower, tugged his jeans on, put one of Harrington’s only button-downs on, and grabbed a bottle from his parents’ huge liquor cabinet.

“No freaking way,” Harrington says.

“They’re not gonna notice _one_ bottle,” Billy shrugs.

“I _mean_,” Harrington says, and Billy _knows_, but, “there’s no freaking way we’re going to a _party_, Billy, you gotta-”

“What? What have I _gotta_?”

It’s a fair question, Billy thinks.

“It’s our last high school party. You don’t have to come,” he says, and Harrington groans, grabs his jacket anyway.

The last time Nancy Wheeler had a free house was apparently never, because the princess has put jack shit away and she’s running around confiscating _vases_, or whatever at twelve-thirty. Billy tries not to laugh at her as he swigs from his bottle. Turns out that it’s gin, which is _gross_, but it was _free_, so.

“Hey, man, you should probably slow down,” Harrington says, which is annoying, because _everyone’s_ drunk by now.

_Harrington’s_ had at least _six_ beers, so.

Billy half-stumbles into the nearest bathroom, drags Harrington with him, and shoves him up against the door to stop him _babysitting_, kisses his neck and bites just a bit.

“Shit, Billy,” he makes a weak show of batting him off before just grabbing at his hair and pulling his head up, kissing him deep.

They stay like that for a minute, open-mouthed and messy, Billy’s hands either side of Harrington’s head, caging him in, but when Billy moves one hand down to the front of his crotch, Harrington pulls back with a half-strangled moan.

“Billy, come on,” he pants, like he’s not already half-hard.

“_You_ come on, King Steve, like you _don’t_ wanna fuck me at the back of a party.”

“Jesus, Billy!”

Billy’s left dumbfounded as Harrington wriggles out from between him and the door, shaking his head.

“What’s your problem?” Billy snarls.

“This is not smart! You need to _deal_ with shit, I’m not taking advantage of you like this.”

Billy blinks. Because that’s not fair. He _is_ dealing with shit, thanks, and when the fuck did _Harrington_ get so high and mighty, because the last time Billy checked, this was the way _every_ high school kid dealt with shit.

“You’re not,” Billy says, slow, getting in close to him, nasty, “my _fucking_ boyfriend.”

“Good,” Harrington shoves him back, “because right now, you’re a fucking disaster.”

There’s a horrible silence after that.

“Shit,” he starts. “I didn’t mean-”

“_Fuck_ _you_,” Billy pushes him aside, storms out the door and down the hall, keeps _going_.

He makes it to the end of three streets before the lump in his throat turns into gasping sobs. He turns to lean against a wall to catch his breath and ends up vomiting over his shoes. He presses his palms against the rough stone until he’s not heaving anymore, until his hands start to hurt more than his chest, which feels _grounding_, feels _better_ than having to feel-

The short sound of a clipped siren makes Billy whip his head up.

“Where you going kid?”

Hopper pulls up, leans out the window of his pick-up.

“Heard the Wheeler girl was having a party. Thought someone better be around to check it out,” he says when Billy doesn’t answer.

Billy _can’t_ answer. He can’t _breathe_.

The cop frowns, opens up the door and steps out, arms crossed.

“Where you going?” he asks again, softer.

Billy opens his mouth to answer, before bursting into tears.

\----

There’s an upside-down face staring at him when he wakes up.

After a moment, Billy realises _he’s_ upside-down, lying half-on a vaguely familiar couch with the beginnings of a searing hangover pressing at his temples. He rubs his eyes once, twice, and slowly registers who the face belongs to.

“Jim,” El says, walking away from where she’s looming over Billy.

He sits up with what feels like a herculean effort, vision swimming nauseatingly, head in hands.

Hopper pulls up a chair and sits down in front of him.

“How bad?” he says.

“Felt worse,” Billy mumbles into his palms.

He wants to shrink into himself at the prospect of being picked up by the Chief of Police, sleeping on his sofa like a stray fucking _cat_. He drags his face up out of his hands to regard Hopper with bleary unease.

Hopper just looks at him.

Billy wishes people would stop just _looking_ at him.

“What?” he says, surly, like he’s not been given a roof over his head, because honestly, he didn’t fucking _ask_ for it.

He’s just waiting for the punishment before he can _fuck off,_ kindly.

“I always say a hangover is just a search for the perfect breakfast,” Hopper says instead. “Eggs and bacon?”

Billy just gapes stupidly.

“You’re not one of these new hippies, are you? Joyce, her eldest, won’t eat a good steak if it’s _free_. God, I fucking hate The Smiths.”

“I, uh,” Billy blinks, baffled, “bacon’s good.”

“Good,” Hopper says, getting up and moving to the kitchenette, dragging out a couple pans with a noise that goes _right through_ Billy. “My dad was mean when he was drunk.”

He doesn’t turn around, says it conversationally, cracks an egg. Billy snorts humourlessly.

“Just drunk? Lucky.”

“Made me real angry, too, for a while,” Hopper continues, ignoring him, “Ran away from home. Grew my hair. Got a bad attitude. Got an _earring_.”

Billy raises his eyebrow at that. Hopper dumps some rashers in a pan, oil spitting.

“Aren’t you gonna, like, berate me for underage drinking, or whatever?”

“Yeah,” Hopper says, pushes the eggs around the skillet, “Don’t do it.”

“You’re a weird kind of cop,” Billy says.

Hopper balances the spatula on the edge of the pan, then, turns around, sits back down in front of Billy, face serious.

“I’m a good _kind_ of cop,” he says, voice low. “Now I don’t care if you get buzzed off a couple wine coolers at your friend’s house. I care about kids-” he looks pointedly, then, at El, who Billy had honestly forgotten was there, sat reading, seemingly uninterested in their conversation “- who have nowhere to go.”

Billy frowns.

“Wait, isn’t she your-”

“_I_ was one of those kids,” Hopper interrupts, solemn. “And right now, so are you.”

Billy shuts up, chews his lip, looks down at his hands, because yeah. He can’t go back home. He can’t go back to Harrington’s, because he fucked _that_ up, like he _does_. He hadn’t _thought_ about that.

“What do I do?” Billy whispers. Barely audible, sounds more like _Jesus fucking Christ, Harrington was right, I’m a fucking disaster and I don’t know how not to be. _

Hopper just gestures around the room. Billy’s confused, then _really_ confused, because-

“I can’t stay _here_?”

The cop leans back in his chair with a nonchalant shrug.

“Legally, you can. I gave my address at your old man’s hearing; I’ve technically got guardianship. Temporarily.”

And that’s. A _lot_ to take in.

“Four months,” Hopper carries on when Billy says nothing. “Now, remind me, how long have you got ‘til college?”

Billy’s tongue’s thick, he can’t swallow.

“Four months,” he breathes.

“Now, it ain’t much, but I reckon we can put a screen up here. There’s a pull-out bed in the shed. What do you think?

Billy thinks a _lot_. He thinks it’s fucking _ridiculous_ to sleep on a cop’s pull-out bed _for four months_. Thinks it’s a trap, because who would _want_ him for four months. Thinks sleeping in this living room would be the most stability he’s had since his dad first hit him back in California.

He kind of thinks he’s about to cry.

Hopper watches him sit there, mouth opening and shutting silently like a dumb puppet, before standing up, slapping him on the back, says:

“Food’s ready.”

\----

Billy helps Hopper move his living room around. They drag the pull-out bed out from the shed, vacuum the leaves off it, find some sheets, pillows, a comforter. Mrs Byers comes around with reams of home-made curtains, helps pin them up to divide the room.

“They were too thin for my boy’s window,” she says. “Let the light in. But for inside, I think they’ll do just fine.”

Billy doesn’t know why everyone’s being so kind to him. He wants to drop and run, scream_ I broke a boy’s face in your driveway_, but he just nods tightly.

When the room looks more like two, Billy sits outside on the porch and lights up a cigarette, hands shaking. Mrs Byers sits down next to him, lights up her own. She’s pretty, in a scruffy, tired kind of way, and Billy finds it hard to breathe around her because she _reminds him so much-_

“Thank you for taking Max in. That night,” he says.

Mrs Byers nods.

“Will says she’s holding up okay.”

Billy’s eyes go wide.

“They all know?”

She shakes her head, smiles kinda sad, puts her hand on Billy’s knee.

“Will’s smart. He didn’t have the best dad.”

Billy bites his lip, nods, because he’s fucking _sick_ of hearing about _shit dads_. They smoke in silence for a while, until Billy’s hands stop shaking.

\----

El is having a sleepover.

It’s. A _lot_.

There’s what seems to be seven hundred kids running around the cabin, screeching about D&D and covering the kitchen in bits of tortilla chips. Billy’s folded up the bed and shoved it behind the bookcase to make room for _whatever_ in exchange for hiding in El’s room until she goes to bed.

Right now, though, he’s hungry.

Navigating the tiny kitchen with assorted manic kids is a mean feat, and the doorbell rings and _Jesus Christ,_ of _course_ they’re not all here yet.

El runs to the door and lets in the Wheeler kid and Max, who walks right in whilst El _attaches_ herself to Wheeler and begins _snogging_ him. It takes Billy back a little bit, not least because it’s hard to remember El is the same age as Max because she’s _nice_, not like a _teenager_, but because Mike Wheeler is a little _shit_. Billy kind of wants to deck him for touching her. But she’s not his sister or anything, so he just turns back to making his sandwich.

His _actual_ sister barges into him, then.

“Move, I want chips.”

“Charming, Maxine,” he rolls his eyes. “I’m fine, by the way.”

“Alright,” she shrugs.

She’s _such_ a bitch, but it feels a bit more normal, so. Billy lets her.

He finishes making his sandwich, grabs a beer, goes to lock himself out of the way when-

“I got four pizzas, three bottles of coke, and popcorn!”

Billy’s stomach drops, and yeah. Of course Harrington’s here.

He’s not spoken to him since he stormed out of the party three days ago. Harrington’s called the cabin twice and Billy’s ignored that twice, because he doesn’t know which one of them was the _bigger_ asshole, and he hasn’t had the mental capacity to figure that out yet. He freezes as Harrington looks at him, face unreadable. The kids swarm him, grab the pizzas, he just stays still, looking.

Harrington nods towards the door, a small signal.

Billy swallows, puts his food down and follows him out onto the porch. Sits down next to him, lights a cigarette, looks at his knees.

“I was jerk,” Harrington speaks first.

Billy doesn’t say anything.

“You’re avoiding me.”

_Yeah_. “I’m not.”

“Right.”

Billy smokes. Harrington sighs.

“It’s just, it kinda _feels_ like you have been,” he says after a moment, like he can’t resist it, like he can’t just be quiet for once in his entire fucking life.

“I’ve been a little fucking busy,” Billy says, which isn’t untrue.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have an attitude problem?”

It’s light, but.

_You need to improve your goddamn attitude._

_Yes, sir. _

Billy says nothing. His cigarette burns all the way down.

“Your fingers are still messed up,” Harrington observes. Billy _knows_. They’re _his_ fingers. “I love you.”

Billy looks up.

Harrington’s looking straight ahead of himself, relaxed, like he’s just told Billy that it’s going to rain. It’s _stupid_, because Billy loves him too, he can’t fucking _breathe_ through it, but his dad will _kill_ him one day, and Harrington can’t change that, and Billy will be buried in _Hawkins fucking Indiana-_

“Don’t be fucking stupid,” Billy says, and it comes out strangled.

Harrington laughs, once.

“Yeah,” he says.

Billy stares at him.

“I _can’t_,” he says.

Harrington looks at him, then, finally, leans forward and kisses him, and Billy kisses back, like it’s just _breathing_. He drops the end of the cigarette somewhere, brings his hands up to either side of Harrington’s face, Harrington’s hand in the small of his back, pulling him closer. Billy takes his bottom lip between his teeth and Harrington whines, low in the back of his throat.

“_Steve_,” Billy breathes into his mouth.

Harrington kisses him deep like he’ll _die_ if doesn’t, like Billy _won’t_ die if they _do, _and then he’s pulling back, standing up, leaving Billy dizzy.

“Let me know when you can,” he says, turning to go back inside as it starts to rain.

\----

“So, are you, like, dating Steve?”

Billy inhales his coffee, scrambles not to drop the cup as he chokes, turns to Max with huge eyes. Max just continues to gather armfuls of food from the cupboards.

“What the _fuck_,” Billy says when he’s partially recovered, “makes you think that?”

“Oh, _please_. At the sleepover the other night? You know, next time you want to start making out in secret do it in an- I don’t know- _secret_ place? Not the front step?”

Billy’s head is spinning. He puts down his mug before his hands shake too much to hold it.

“Plus, Steve was in a rotten mood last week. Like, when you _weren’t_ staying at his.”

“Stop, Jesus,” he stops her before he has a heart attack, stands up and grabs her shoulder, “This isn’t fucking _gossip_, Maxine. I’m serious.”

“What are you scared of?”

Billy gapes, because she’s not fucking _stupid_, so-

“What do you _think_? Why are you even _here_ right now, _Jesus_.”

Max says something like _girl’s night_ that Billy doesn’t really hear because his heartbeat is roaring in his ears. She stops grabbing packs of chips, then, leans against the counter, serious in a way beyond her years that unnerves Billy to his core.

“I _know_ its not your dad,” she says, folding her arms. “He can’t touch you now, Billy, he’d get, like, arrested on the spot.” 

Billy rolls his eyes, _what _does_ she _know, but something tugs in his chest. The idea of _not_ just being scared of his dad, for the first time in his entire life, is overwhelming to the point of making him dizzy. He hadn’t even considered it as a possibility.

Max is shrugging, like it’s nothing, grabbing the food, turning to leave.

“You’ve got one summer left in Hawkins,” she says, like its an incentive, like it’s an _answer_.

When she’s gone, Billy grabs his boots.

He shifts his weight from foot to foot, hovering at the end of Harrington’s drive. He wants to turn back already, run already. He lights another cigarette instead and stands there smoking the whole thing. By the time he’s burned through three, he’s moved five steps closer.

Harrington appears in the doorway before Billy musters the courage to knock. He leans on the frame, crosses his arms, waits. The radio’s on inside the house. Billy says nothing, listens to it for a minute, tries not to choke on his own breathing, _at night I wake up with my sheets soaking wet, and a freight train—_

“Hey,” Harrington says.

“Hi,” Billy says.

He picks at the skin around his thumbnail. Steve watches for a moment.

“You coming in?”

Billy sets his jaw. He wants to scream at how easy Steve asks. He wants to scream at how easy it sounds, to just go in and- what? Shack up? Put some kind of label on this? Become more than just not-even-quite-friends, like this isn’t _them_, like this isn’t _Hawkins fucking Indiana_, wants to scream _I can’t, I can’t, I want to but-_

He takes a deep breath in and moves towards the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously, Bruce Springsteen is to blame for this. Listen to Born in the USA. He wrote the whole album about these two.


End file.
